


Match

by aohatsu



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Bruises, Comfort Food, Dom/sub, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Getting Together, Hair, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, IN SPACE!, Intercrural Sex, Kink Discovery, Kissing, M/M, Masochism, Praise Kink, Rescue, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:13:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25607158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aohatsu/pseuds/aohatsu
Summary: “Well, Stark? Are you accepting him as your match or washing your hands of the whole damn mess?” Barnes asks, sounding gruff.“Fuck it,” Tony says, grinning and rubbing at his chin. “I’ll accept the match.”
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 17
Kudos: 280
Collections: Battleship 2020, Battleship 2020 - Red Team





	Match

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HogwartsToAlexandria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HogwartsToAlexandria/gifts).



> Not quite a _The 100_ AU, but similarities are there.

They were passing a planet.

It was a rare occurrence. The _Avenger_ traveled slowly, with no particular goal in mind other than _keep going_. They might be allowed to return to Earth one day, but that would be hundreds of years away. Their home planet is covered in waste; the air and water tainted with the pollution of their ancestors. It’s dangerous if not deadly for all life, no matter the wonderful stories that were passed down generation after generation on the _Avenger_ of what it had been like to live on the ground.

The exit bay doors open.

Peter’s entire body trembles, first with terrifying fear, and then—exhilaration.

Wonderment, suddenly taking over his every worry and fear.

He was _outside_.

He’s only ever seen the outside of the station through the viewing platform on Deck 46 or, during the quarterly bazaar, the one on Deck 30. As beautiful as it was to look out the large windows, it was nothing in comparison to being outside, gravity losing its hold as you, completely alone but for your space suit and tether attached to the station as you float into the deep and black vastness of space.

It’s not so dark where he’s floating. There’s light shining from the station. He can see a few viewing platforms if he looks upwards, though not from the side anyone else has ever seen them from except whichever station engineers were trained to do outside mechanical work.

And, of course, there’s the planet.

“Ned,” Peter says, his voice choked, “it’s incredible.”

The planet was a vivid, bright mix of oranges and reds, two large rings circling it. It looked a thousand times larger than the station, even so far away as the station is staying, careful not be pulled off-course.

“Yeah, you better enjoy it, Parker!” Flash suddenly yells into the radio, loud enough that Peter flinches. He’d almost forgotten in his awe that this—this _space walk_ hadn’t been something he’d actually _wanted_ to do. “It’s the last view you’re ever going to see!” And then, with another sick, upturn of Peter’s stomach, he hears the station alarms start to sound through the radio.

Desperately he spins around, forgetting the planet and clutching at the tether tied to his suit’s waist, pulling himself back toward the station as quickly as possible. “Ned!” he yells, and he can hear Ned on the other end, full of panic, yelling, “Peter! Get back to doors! I’m trying to open them—Peter!”

He gets to the outer exit bay doors, shaking with fear and adrenaline. The alarms are so loud when he gets into the station that they’re ringing in his ears. Ned slams his fist on the panel, and the doors shut. The oxygen zone is flooded with air, and when the light switches to sealed, Ned opens the inside doors. Peter falls through, desperately trying to take off his helmet.

Just as Ned manages to hit the switches for him and tug it off, his face full of relief as he says, “Oh my God, you’re alive,” the doors on the other side of the room open and five security officers flood the room, batons and tasers at the ready as they yell, “Step away from the exit bay!” and “Get away from that control panel!”

He and Ned look at each other and Peter can read the fear in Ned’s eyes. Peter’s sure his are reflecting the same thing.

Peter Parker currently lives in Section 6, Deck 43, Room 72 with his Uncle Ben and his Aunt May. Their request to have a child was denied three times before Richard and Mary Parker were executed for misuse of materials and their request to take over guardianship of Richard and Mary’s son Peter was granted.

Peter’s lived with them since he was five. He has very few memories of his real parents, and even those he’s not entirely sure are real instead of just a result of his imagination, taking inspiration from the stories Uncle Ben and Aunt May tell him.

Peter turns seventeen in the third quarter of 2367, the one-hundred and ninety-third year of the _Avenger_ station’s rotation. His education deck instructor claps him on the shoulder and tells him he’s been assigned to work in Section 6, Deck 48, Maintenance Station 3.

He’s happy enough with it, even though they mostly have him working on cleaning all the smallest tools and keeping rust out of the engineering section as much as possible. The really exciting thing is that he can actually see Engine 6 running sometimes, when he’s allowed access for whatever reason to the Engine room. The Exit Bay is on Deck 48 too, of course, but it’s a restricted section that only trained personnel are allowed to enter. Well, trained personnel and anyone being executed, of course.

Luckily, Peter’s meal rations don’t change and his ticket still has him in the cafeteria at the same time as his friends, MJ and Ned, even though they’re both still sixteen and won’t turn seventeen and get their job assignments until the fourth quarter of the year. He meets up with them to eat and talk every day during both morning meal and evening meal, and along with when he gets back to his room at the end of the day and can sit with Uncle Ben and Aunt May, it’s his favorite time of the day.

Today, the last day of the third quarter, is match making day.

Every quarter, the match maker matches Avenger citizens. Once you turn seventeen, you can be matched—though many aren’t matched until they’re older. Peter isn’t particularly concerned; he’s only been matchable for two months and doubts the match maker will have considered him at all yet.

Nonetheless, the cafeteria stays quiet as the matches are read out over the sound system. Whenever someone from Section 6 is announced, whoever it is gets loud clapping and cheering in their face. Peter’s always thought it was kind of fun and is optimistic that he’ll be matched one day to someone he’ll fall in love with, just like his father and his mother, like his aunt and his uncle did.

The announcement continues, “Section one, Tony Stark,” and everyone in the cafeteria erupts into hushed and awed whispers.

It’s rare for someone from section one to be announced as a match. There are only around two-hundred people on section one, which is hardly anything compared to the nine-hundred people who live in Section 6. Tony Stark is a special case too. He’s the Chief Engineer of the _Avenger_ and he’s been matched _five_ times before—and has rejected each and every one, an allowance only granted to him because of his Section 1 status.

But Peter doesn’t have time to say anything to Ned, because the announcement adds, “matched to Section 6, Peter Parker,” and everything stops.

Ned and MJ both look at him with wide eyes, surprise clear in their faces.

Peter swallows, “Did—did that—”

But the sudden surge of noise as people start yelling and crowding their table answers that question for him.

He’s been matched to Section 1, Chief Engineer, Tony Stark.

Tony’s holding a wrench between his teeth, narrowing his eyes as he tries to get into a particularly small area beneath the hydro tube’s undercarriage. “Hey, Tones,” he hears a familiar voice call, and he mumbles, “Hold on!” though he can’t be sure if Rhodey actually understood it, seeing as he still had the wrench in his mouth.

A minute later, he rolls out from under the hydro tube and wipes at his face. There’s a smear of lubricating oil on his wrist, so it’s probably on his forehead now. Great.

“What’s up?” he asks, spitting out the wrench so he can talk while he stands up and starts looking for a relatively clean washcloth.

“You remember you were matched this morning?”

Tony rolls his eyes, huffs and starts checking the hydro tube’s diagnostics as he answers, “Yeah, the kid down in Section 6? Match maker’s getting desperate.”

Huh, the hydraulics is still a level too high. He’ll have to go down to Deck 33 and see what’s going on there. The station will have to cut rations if they’re down a whole liquidation deck for longer than a few days. There’s just not enough hours in the day to fix everything. In reality, the station wasn’t meant to be in space for quite this long without setting down for ground repairs.

Still, he’ll make it work.

“Yeah, well, the kid’s about to be executed at Exit Bay 2.”

Tony’s hands fumble with the tablet.

He looks at Rhodey. “What?”

“Apparently he and a friend decided to take an unauthorized space walk about fifteen minutes ago. Thought you might be interested in meeting the kid before he gets ejected. Up to you.” Rhodey’s looking at him with one eyebrow drawn up, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Fuck,” Tony says, and runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, let’s—what the hell was he thinking? A _spacewalk_?”

“No idea, but he sounds like your kind of person,” Rhodey smirks as they jump on the lift.

Tony walks quickly, not wanting to get there _after_ the kid’s been shoved out of the airlock. He scans his code and pushes through, moving into the Exit Bay command room only to see five security officers—none that he recognizes, so they must all be assigned to Section 6—surrounding a kid who has tear tracks running down his cheeks even as he’s, clearly enough, trying to keep his face strong.

The kid looks up with all of the security officers when Tony walks in, Rhodey just behind him.

One of the security officers jumps and straightens, facing him, and says, “Officer Stark,” and nods. Tony feels the urge to rub his temples because of the sudden headache coming on.

He looks back at the kid, standing in the middle of the cold room, shivering because he’s naked except his underwear. He has a bloody lip and more than one bruise blooming along his naked, pale skin. There’s a space suit and a pair of standard work overalls shoved into a corner not far away from him. Tony really did cut it close on getting down here then.

“Care to explain why I wasn’t notified this was going on?”

The security officer clears his throat and says, “We thought you had rejected the match, sir.”

Tony raises his eyebrow. “I’m not allowed to reject the match until I’ve met the kid.” He turns to Rhodey, “Had I met the kid?”

“Nope,” Rhodey says, the word popping.

Tony turns back to the officers, who are squirming in their black uniforms. “Huh. That would make this whole thing you’ve got going on here against protocol. Tell me this: where’s Rogers?”

Ah, the officer that had been talking gets tense.

“Captain Rogers is off-duty, sir.”

“Wait,” Tony says, and sure, he’s being melodramatic, but he has to have fun somehow, right? He turns to Rhodey, “Platypus, correct me if I’m wrong, but are Section 6 security officers supposed to execute criminals without notifying the Chief Security Officer first?”

“I told you stop calling me that, Tony. But you’re right, that’s definitely against protocol.”

Tony turns back to the security officers. He snaps his fingers and says, “Wow, two strikes in as many minutes. Are you sure snap execution judgments are what we should be going for here?”

The security officer actually has the gall to try and defend himself. He stumbles over his words. “He—the boy committed an immediately executable crime, sir. He—he took a spacewalk! He endangered the entire station!”

And, well, that, actually, Tony couldn’t deny. Unauthorized spacewalks were illegal and dangerous, and to do shit like that was beyond stupid. The kid didn’t have any training whatsoever for taking a spacewalk. Hell, did he even know how to put the suit on properly? It’s funny; the quick glance Tony had taken this morning over the kid’s credentials hadn’t screamed out _stupid_ to him, nor had they really hinted at the sort of daredevil carefree attitude he’d think was required for this particular sort of gut-wrenching activity.

Tony has been outside multiple times himself, of course, and the first time hadn’t been exactly within the rules, but it hadn’t been straight up unauthorized either. He knew how to cover his tracks—unlike the kid, apparently.

After a long pause, Tony nods to the kid and asks, “Well, Underoos? What the hell were you doing?”

“I—” the kid starts, a stuttering mess as he stares at Tony. “I didn’t—I didn’t want to—”

Before the kid can keep stuttering out an excuse, the doors open again. Tony says, “Ah, finally. You know, if Rhodey hadn’t dragged me down here when he did, your arrival would have been to a dead kid outside those bay doors.”

Rogers’ face tightens as he comes into the room fully, Barnes and Wilson right behind him. Tony spares a moment to think that Rogers’ should have brought Romanoff—she’s the scariest of the security crew by far.

Rogers ignores Tony and immediately starts demanding a report from the Section 6 officers.

Tony approaches the kid instead, still shivering in his damn underwear, three feet away from the doors that were about to seal his fate. That, let’s be honest here, still could. Tony sighs and takes off his jacket, a too-large and tattered brown thing that he wears when he has to work on the liquidation and tugs it over the boy’s shoulders.

The kid looks at him with wide, uncertain eyes.

There’s a nasty looking bruise blooming on cheek, just at the corner of his mouth. Tony runs a thumb over it, wiping away the little trickle of blood. The kid sucks in a breath, still looking at him like he doesn’t know what’s happening. Well, fair’s fair, Tony’s not sure either.

“Hey,” he calls out to Rogers and the others. “What the hell did you hit him so much for? He’s a fucking kid.”

One of the security officers that hadn’t spoken up yet suddenly does, saying, “We didn’t hit him. He looked like that when we showed up.”

Rogers comes over. “Alright, Parker,” he says. “I need you to tell me what happened. Why did you think you could take a spacewalk? And how did you manage it without any training?”

“I didn’t want to,” the kid says again, his voice less of a squeak this time. It was deeper, softer.

“This morning, I—the announcement came over that I’d been matched to—” he glances at Tony.

Rogers nods. “Go on.”

“Some of the others were mad about it, I guess. They cornered Ned and me and—and they said I—” he looks at Tony. He swallows. “They said I could take a walk with a suit, or Ned could take a walk without one. So I put on the suit.”

Rogers ran a fist across his chin, eyebrows furrowed.

“Who were these other people?”

The kid looks to the floor. He closes his eyes.

“Come on, kid,” Tony says.

“Flash,” he says, quiet. He breathes and tightens his fists. “Eugene Thompson.”

Rogers eyes widen and Tony says, “Thompson as in _Harrison_ Thompson? The council member?”

He immediately looks at the Section 6 security officers, all of them standing either too still or nervously shuffling in their boots.

“Where’s the camera feed to this room?” Wilson asks.

One of them coughs and says, “It was turned off.”

The kid flinches and says, “They—they made Ned turn them off. Before we—they made him.”

Rogers takes a minute to go look at the console. Rhodey follows him, looking into it.

Tony keeps looking at the kid, at the smear of blood on his lip and the bruise still blossoming on his stomach, clearly from a punch. At the way he’s tightening his fists, trying to stay still and strong and stand his ground in this impossible situation, beaten and stripped down to nothing.

“Only fingerprint we’re seeing here is from the Leeds kid,” Rhodey sighs after a minute. “There’s nothing to prove what Parker is saying about Thompson’s son being here.”

“Where is the Leeds kid?” Barnes asks, and someone else answers, “Holding cells. He’s sixteen.”

Lucky him. Sixteen is still considered a child on the station. Sixteen-year-old’s can’t be executed without a full council trial on their seventeenth birthdays. They’re held in the holding cells until then.

The kid’s shoulders are tense. Tony can’t blame him.

Rogers runs a hand down his face.

“We’ll investigate the Thompson kid. I don’t like those bruises on Parker—it’s proof enough something went down here. But station law is still law, Stark. He went on a spacewalk. They could have caused serious damage to the station. He’ll have to undergo trial unless you’re taking responsibility for him.”

Tony stares at the kid, at the way his body starts to tremble as he forces himself not to move.

“Tones,” Rhodey quietly says.

Tony could save the kid. If he accepts the match, the kid will go from Section 6 to Section 1 in less than a minute. Section 1 citizens have certain… privileges. If Tony accepts responsibility, Parker won’t have to undergo the trial, which could take months. Hell, Tony could pull a favor and get his friend off the hook too. He could consider it their matching gift. 

“Well, Stark? Are you accepting him as your match or washing your hands of the whole damn mess?” Barnes asks, sounding gruff.

“Fuck it,” Tony says, grinning and rubbing at his chin. “I’ll accept the match.”

Peter breathes.

He stares at his feet. One step. Two. Three.

Breathe.

“You okay, kid?” comes Mr. Stark’s voice, and Peter nearly jumps.

Peter swallows and forces himself to look up.

“I’m fine,” he says.

They’re standing in the middle of the hallway, walls made of familiar metal plating with bright yellow numbers dictating SECTION 4, DECK 32. ENGINE 4. It was the numbers themselves that were unfamiliar. Peter has only ever been to Section 4 during quarterly bazaars, and was only granted access to the recreation area set up for trading on Deck 30.

But Tony Stark is the Chief Engineer, and apparently the fastest way when you have access to every engine room across the ship is to just—walk through them all, flashing your code at every single section lock encoded entrance. Peter wants to look at everything; every machine, every hologram, every whiteboard covered in numbers and giant silver tube that somehow controls the ship and keeps it functional. Instead, his heart is racing, his stomach is fluttering in a way that makes him want to hurl at the same time that he wants to keep glancing at Mr. Stark’s hands as they walk, and his lungs are threatening to stop working if he doesn’t get himself together.

Mr. Stark, Section 1 citizen, _Chief Engineer_ of the _Avenger_ Space Station, _accepted their match_.

Everyone knows Mr. Stark doesn’t accept his matches. He’s had _five_ , and he’s rejected _all of them_.

The first one was when he’d been Peter’s age, to a way older guy who’d been his father’s friend—Stane something? Anyway, it made sense that he’d rejected that one. But just a year or two afterward, he’d rejected the match to another Section 2 kid—maybe _his_ name had been Stane? Something like that anyway—and then immediately rejected a third to a Section 2 girl named Sunset Bain, who Peter only remembers because she’d been executed a few years ago for stealing resources and selling them for council votes. So, good call there, probably. But then Mr. Stark had rejected Janet van Dyne, the likely next Chief of Synthetization, which nobody understood because she seemed like a perfect match, and _then_ he’d rejected Virginia Potts, the Head of Communications, and who everyone said the match maker had cheated to match him with because they were already friends and they just wanted him matched already.

Of course, Peter only knows about any of this because people like to gossip about it whenever it’s matching time. Maybe some of it’s wrong. Maybe Mr. Stark wasn’t friends with Ms. Potts or maybe he hated Ms. Van Dyne. But either way, Mr. Stark has rejected five matches, all of them more likely choices than he was.

And yet, here they were.

Mr. Stark was telling him, “Watch your step, there are coils everywhere in here; I’ve been meaning to re-route some things, just haven’t had the time,” and taking Peter’s hand, tugging him down a second corridor to get to the next section entrance.

And Peter was going with him, every step taking him closer and closer to Section 1, where—where he was going to _live now_ , which was _crazy_.

And Mr. Stark had said okay to the match to keep Peter from being pushed out of the exit bay airlock, which was a whole different thing for Peter to avoid thinking about because he’d nearly died, they’d made him take off the suit, and then strip out of his overalls, and his shirt underneath, and his boots, because there was no point in wasting supplies on a dead body, and—

He shivers again, even though the engine room they’re walking through is warm enough that most of the engineering workers he’s seen have been wearing sweat-soaked shirts and tank tops.

“Welcome to section one,” Mr. Stark says when he inputs his code again on a door that has those words printed in bright yellow text on it. Peter nods and steps through. It looks… the same as every other engine room they’ve walked through, he thinks, and then almost wants to roll his eyes at himself. Every engine room is equally important. It’s the upper decks that’ll look different.

“Come on, lift’s over here. Damn, I’m starved. You good with whatever I’ve got in my quarters or should we stop in on the recreation deck and grab something from the main kitchens?”

Peter shakes his head. He’s fine. He’s absolutely fine.

“You sure you aren’t hungry? I hear spacewalking builds up an appetite. And by I hear, I mean I know because I’ve done it and I always want sugar after.”

“Sugar?” Aunt May, on very rare occasions, has been able to trade for small cakes, pies and cookies at the quarterly bazaars as a treat. She usually tries to get one every year on Peter’s birthday, but sometimes they’re just too much.

Mr. Stark glances at him. “You know, I think I’ve got a craving for some ice cream. We’ll stop in on deck five and see what they’ve got in the cooler.”

Peter was right about the upper decks looking different. To start with, the hallways don’t have bright yellow words on the metal walls—they have wallpaper. Mr. Stark leads him down a long corridor, past the educational zone and the nursery, and into a large room with round tables set up with white tablecloths and chairs too fancy to actually sit on. The floor is soft, like fabric—who would waste fabric by covering a floor with it?

He stares.

Mr. Stark tugs him over to the end of the room and calls in through a swinging door, “Hey, is it too late to steal some dessert?”

A large man dressed in clean white with a slightly-stained black apron and a scowl wanders out. “It should be. I just finished the dishes, Tony. If you pull something out,” he flicks a spatula out threateningly, “you’re cleaning your own damn mess up afterward.”

Tony grins. “Peter, this is Happy, Section 1’s very own head chef. He earned his name, can’t you tell?”

“Uh, hello—” Peter starts.

Happy’s eyes widen, and then he blinks. “Damn, I didn’t think you’d accept the match. Kid impress you or what?”

“Oh yeah,” Mr. Stark says, and he sounds genuine even though Peter knows he isn’t, “kid took an unauthorized spacewalk. How am I supposed to say no to that sort of crazy? He’s clearly perfect for me and the match maker knows exactly what she’s doing after all.”

Happy looks doubtful, but he doesn’t question it.

“Don’t touch the cake. The cake is for tomorrow.”

Mr. Stark salutes him and says, “I swear I won’t touch the cake. Probably,” before dragging Peter through the door and into the kitchen.

His aunt works in the kitchen on deck six, and so Peter has seen it a few times. This kitchen is a lot smaller, a lot cleaner, and just—different. There are giant mixing bowls on the counters and canisters on the walls that have clearly labeled marks that say things like flour, sugar, and yeast. The deck six kitchen is bigger, with boxes and cans and canisters piled against the walls and every spare inch of space. The sink is always overflowing with dishes, and the water rationed out for washing dishes is always murky and dark.

Mr. Stark has pulled open the large door to the freezer and stuck his head inside, and has called out, “Vanilla alright? Looks like they’re out of chocolate.”

Peter has never had ice cream in his life, and just says, “It’s fine.”

Mr. Stark comes out of the freezer with a canister filled with something off-white and creamy looking, even though it’s clearly frozen.

“Come on, we’ll take it back to my quarters so Happy doesn’t yell at us for making a mess.”

“Won’t they get angry you’re taking the ice cream?” Peter asks, suddenly. It’s stealing. That’s—they could get in trouble. He’s already in so much trouble, this is—

“Nah,” Mr. Stark promises. “Happy knows I’m taking it.”

Peter can do nothing but follow him back to the lift.

“So, we’re on deck three,” Mr. Stark says as they climb on. “Room four.”

“Okay,” Peter says. Mr. Stark glances at him again. “We’ll, ah, take care of those bruises too. Put something on them. I’ve got a couple ice packs. Engineering can hurt often enough that I keep them in my quarters. It’s better than stealing them from medical whenever I need them. They want me to report every damn stubbed toe and as you’ll soon find out, kid, I really hate paperwork.”

“That’s—thank you.”

“No problem, kid.”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, and then opens them again. He presses a hand casually to his side; the bruise on his stomach twinges.

The lift stops and they get out on what’s clearly a corridor for living quarters—though each door seems like they’re miles and miles apart. Peter used to be able to stand between his and Ned’s doors and touch the outer edges of both just by stretching his arms out. Here, he thinks he’d need thirty people standing side-by-side, arms outstretched, just to be able to reach. But then, section six has three-hundred living spaces between decks forty-three and forty-four. Deck three on station one is reserved quarters for chief officers—the head bridge officers—and their immediate families.

There’s only twenty-five rooms.

There are more, something like seventy, on deck four, reserved for other important _Avenger_ citizens who live and work on station one.

But there’s only twenty-five on deck three, which is where Mr. Stark has brought them now, and his room is the second on the left, the door with a golden embossed **_4_** on the front.

When Mr. Stark puts in his code, Peter stumbles into the room first. It’s—it’s huge, even bigger than the length between doors in the hallway suggested, somehow. The room they walk into is just one room, Mr. Stark’s quarters somehow four rooms all inter-connected to each other. There’s the main room, with a soft beige couch and a real life, actual television set up on the wall and a small kitchen at the other end, with a refrigerator and counter space for making their own food if they want, which is beyond anything Peter’s ever imagined.

There’s a small kitchen with shelves and counters, and a small bathroom that has an actual shower and Mr. Stark says, while Peter is looking at it, “Water rations are deposited automatically every morning, so you’ve got about five minutes every day.”

Peter can’t help but repeat, “Every day?”

Mr. Stark winces and says, “Ah, yeah. Sorry, I forgot the other stations only have shower rations every other day.”

Every three days, for four minutes, in the communal shower room. Peter doesn’t say anything about it.

The last two rooms are an office—filled with books and a desk with a personal computer on it, papers and diagrams tacked to the wall and thrown on the floor like Mr. Stark had been working on something complicated—and a room that was clearly meant for sleeping in, though the bed was bigger and softer than any Peter had ever seen before.

“That’s for one person?” he asks, and then immediately wishes he hadn’t when Mr. Stark says, “Well, two now.”

Right.

Because they’re _matched_. Because these are Peter’s quarters now too, and that’s _his_ bed now too, and they’re going to have to _share it_.

“I’ve got the ice pack,” Mr. Stark says, and he’s holding something that he’s wrapped a small towel around. He’s nodding toward the couch, sitting down on it and clearly expecting Peter to do the same even though neither of them are exactly clean. Mr. Stark in particular. He still has a smear of something dark on his cheek, like oil or grease. It looks like the same stuff that’s at the corners of his nails and the spots on his shirt and pants where he must have tried wiping his hands off.

But if he doesn’t care about getting his furniture dirty, then Peter isn’t going to say anything about it either.

Peter sits, and then stops breathing when Mr. Stark moves closer and leans in to deftly unsnap the top of Peter’s overalls. He puts the cold pack on the couch next to Peter’s leg where he can feel the cold seeping through the towel and his pants. He runs his hands, gentle despite everything, down Peter’s sides until he can hook his thumbs under the hem and draw Peter’s shirt up. Peter, without meaning to, raises his arms for Mr. Stark to keep pulling Peter’s shirt off entirely.

He sucks in a shaky breath and closes his eyes again when the cold pack is suddenly pressed to the big, darkening bruise on his skin.

“Hold that,” Mr. Stark says, and his voice is somehow quiet and yet so much louder in the moment. Peter moves to grab at the cold pack, and watches as Mr. Stark gets up and digs through a drawer in the kitchen for—a spoon?

Oh. The ice cream.

Peter swallows again, and forces himself to speak. “I—I wanted—you didn’t have to—thank you.” He winces. He’s stuttering his words. “Really. Thank you. This is—I’ll do whatever I can to—to make it up to you—”

“Kid,” Mr. Stark stops him before he can keep embarrassing himself. “You’re fine, alright? We’ll be fine. Match maker guarantee.” He grins, like it’s a joke somehow, and Peter nods and looks back down.

He’s so far out of his depth.

The kid still looks nervous and jittery, like he’s about to jump right out of his skin.

Tony sits back down on the couch across from him, putting the container of ice cream between them. He only grabbed one spoon, but he takes a bite himself before offering it to Peter who takes it with his free hand with no small dosage of hesitance. Tony attempts to be patient, only saying, “It’s good, I swear. Try it.”

He grins when the spoon finally makes it to Peter’s mouth and the kid’s eyes light up.

He’s still got that bruise on his face; it’ll be a nasty mark for a few days, maybe even a few weeks. In truth, he should probably take Peter over to medical, but all Strange will do is tell him to ice the bruises anyway and make Tony fill out a shit ton of paperwork. Besides, Rogers is already investigating the Thompson kid, hopefully. Rhodey’ll have gotten the Leeds kid out of the holding cells by now, and Peter’s aunt and uncle will have been informed of the match—Tony’ll take some time out tomorrow to head back to section six to pick up Peter’s stuff and meet them properly when it isn’t the middle of the first sleeping cycle.

He really just wants the kid to relax.

“It’s good, right?”

Peter nods, handing the spoon back like they’re going to take exact turns. Tony grins and takes it.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, trading the spoon back and forth. The kid doesn’t look quite-so-much like he’ll jump on the ceiling at any moment. He winces, a couple of times, when he opens his mouth to eat the ice cream though, his split lip and sore cheek no doubt in a bit of pain. Tony reaches over again, touching a thumb to the swollen bit of the kid’s lip without thinking.

The kid’s breath hitches and his eyes go wide, but he doesn’t move to stop Tony from touching him and whether he should or not, Tony takes it as encouragement and presses down, just the barest side of firm.

Peter’s eyelids flutter shut as his breath comes out in a hiss.

Tony finds himself swallowing, and he takes a second to put the ice cream off to the side—it’s mostly gone now, anyway.

“Hey, kid,” he says, quietly. He lets his hand slide up Peter’s face, slow and gentle, from his lip to his messy curls. Tony touches his hair, running his hand through it, careful not to tug. The kid is holding himself still, his stomach muscles taut. He’s breathing steady, clearly focused on trying to stay—in control. Tony shows a hint of a smile even though the kid still has his eyes shut tight. “You had a rough day. It’s alright to just take a second, alright? Breathe, come on.”

It takes another minute, and then two, for Peter to slowly, steadily, breathe and begin to relax the tense set of his shoulders. He leans forward, pressing his head further into Tony’s grip, just enough that Tony isn’t sure he even knows he’s doing it. Tony shifts until he has his back to the couch and the kid can lean forward even further, close enough that he’s pressing his face to Tony’s shirt, breathing against Tony’s throat and clutching between them at the cold pack he’s still holding to the bruise on his stomach.

Tony gently takes the pack out of his hand and places it to the side.

He runs a hand up Peter’s skin, fingers tracing the cold skin around Peter’s bruise. It’s a bright, burning red and looks like it should be hot to the touch. It may well have been if not for the cold pack. Peter mutters something soft and unintelligible against Tony’s neck. It doesn’t sound like _stop_ , and Peter’s newly freed fingers have begun to clutch at Tony’s shirt, his fingers pressing into Tony’s chest as he does so.

Still, Tony says, just loud enough to make sure he can be heard, “Tell me to stop if you want me to.”

With the hand still in Peter’s hair, he tightens his grip, just enough to tug a little. Peter makes a noise, deep in his throat, and shifts closer, pressing his body against Tony’s as well as he can folded together on the couch like they are. Tony tugs a little harder, and Peter moans again, a soft, broken little thing.

“How do you feel, kid?” Tony asks. The sounds are good, the body movements better, but he wants words. He wants to hear the kid say it.

Peter shakes his head, keeping his face pressed against Tony’s neck.

Hiding.

Tony uses his other hand to apply the sudden, dull pressure of a hand right over the center of the large, still-blooming bruise.

Peter jerks over him, a pained noise of surprise escaping his mouth. “Please,” he says, so quiet Tony can barely hear him.

“Please what?”

“Please—I don’t know, just— _please_.”

Tony hums. He presses on the bruise again, and Peter shakes from head to toe but he doesn’t try to move away. He lifts a hip, practically climbing halfway into Tony’s lap. “Please,” he asks again, and Tony can feel his arousal from this new position, the hardness of his cock pressing against Tony’s thigh.

He closes his eyes. _Fuck_ , he hadn’t meant for this, all of it, to go quite this fast.

“Tell me what you like,” he says. Peter moans, a noise of frustration this time. Tony huffs a short laugh and asks, “Do you like it when I pull your hair?” He demonstrates, tugging on a soft curl again until Peter has to lift his head just slightly. He nods, his face red and his eyes darting away from Tony’s face.

Tony softens his grip. “And when I touch your bruises?”

Quiet, hushed breathing fills the room until, finally, Peter breaks and says, “I—yes. Do you—is this—”

Tony brings up the hand that had been delicately tracing his bruise and cups his cheek instead.

“We just met today. We don’t have to do anything. But if you want to, then yes. This is good.”

Peter looks at him, his eyes still wide and bright, even as it’s clear he’s aroused and overwhelmed. Tony has to wonder if the kid hadn’t realized the hurt turned him on. If this a discovery they’re making together, here, tonight, matched. He easily tugs Peter’s face down the inch he needs to lean forward and press their mouths softly together.

Peter melts into it, his body slumping over Tony’s as he closes his eyes and moves his mouth in a way that suggests he’s seen people kiss without ever having done it himself. Tony smiles into the kiss and eases Peter into it, pulling him back, sliding his tongue across Peter’s bottom lip until he gasps with the burst of pain and, distracted, gives up on his attempt at taking charge of the kiss.

He rocks his hips forward when Tony catches his bottom lip with his teeth and tugs, gentle but for the fact that his lip is already cut and swollen.

“Good,” Tony mutters against Peter’s mouth, “you’re doing good, kid. So good.”

Peter’s entire body shakes, and his hands clutch at Tony.

“Are you—I mean, can we—” He glances towards the bedroom door, and Tony feels his cock twitch.

He bites his own lip to keep himself in check, and then answers, “No. Not tonight. You’re all shaken up, kid.”

Peter rolls his hips against him again as if to demonstrate that he’s not shaken up at all. He groans and does it again. Tony smirks and moves both hands to Peter’s hips, one hand digging into his thigh and holding him still.

“We can take these off though,” he says, and lifts Peter just enough that they can drag Peter’s overalls off, pushing them to the floor. His underwear goes with them, leaving him naked and sitting on top of Tony. Fuck, he’s beautiful, from head to toe. Even his cock, pink and dripping, is gorgeous, the type of thing you see in the art chosen for display on the recreation deck. He’s breathing hard, his chest moving quickly, one of his fists clenched tightly shut. He’s looking to and from Tony’s face, like he’s desperate for a reaction but scared to know what it’ll be.

Tony doesn’t make him wait for long. He says, “You’re stunning, Peter. Practically a piece of art. Every last mark,” he says, and presses his thumb against a mole on his lower belly rather than the bruise. Peter breathes out slowly, his body still trembling atop Tony’s.

“You too,” he says, finally, a long moment later, and he tugs on Tony’s shirt.

Tony grins. “Your wish is my command, kid.” He lifts up just enough to shove his pants down and pull his shirt off, not bothering to make any sort of show of it. The kid is clearly too close now to bother wasting time, and Tony’s not that much farther off.

Peter looks at his cock, and opens his mouth, nearly a pant. Tony raises his hips, instinctively searching out friction. He finds it, and he and Peter both groan and fumblingly rock against each other for a long moment until, too soon, Peter cries out and comes against Tony’s chest. He digs his nails into Tony’s shoulders, gasping wetly and stuttering, “Oh, oh,” before he bites his own hand to try and stay quiet.

Tony, close himself, wipes the come off his chest and transfers as much of it as he can onto Peter’s inner thighs before he shifts up and slides his cock easily between Peter’s thighs, telling him in a tight voice, “Squeeze your legs shut for me, Peter,” as he starts to fuck up between Peter’s wet, slick thighs.

Peter’s eyes are blown wide, and he hisses when Tony’s fingers—accidentally this time—dig into the bruise on his waist. A minute more, and Tony is coming, thrusting through it, hips straining on every smack of his thighs against the back of Peter’s. He finally stills, and reaches up to touch the back of Peter’s neck, slick with sweat, and tugs him down until he can press their foreheads together and just breathe.

Peter smiles, shy but bright, and Tony goes ahead and draws him in for another soft, lingering kiss.

He distractedly grabs for the cold pack, grabbing the towel he’d wrapped it in and using it to wipe off the come as best as he can from their bodies before he shifts and Peter slides off of his lap on shaky legs.

“Come on,” he says, dropping the towel. He’ll pick it up tomorrow. “Let’s go to bed.” He takes Peter’s hand to draw him into the bedroom when Peter seems too hesitant—shy?—to move toward the bedroom on his own. He pulls Peter into the bed with him, still naked. The blankets are thin but they’re soft and Tony throws an arm casually over Peter’s body, huddling in close enough for Peter to know he’s there, but not so close as to smother him. Their fingers are still interlocked, neither one of them having let go just yet.

“Was it good?” he asks through a yawn, suddenly realizing how tired he is.

“Yeah,” Peter says, after a minute. Then, hurriedly, “Um, really good. I—yeah. Thank you?”

Tony snorts and huffs out a laugh.

“You don’t have to thank me, but I’ll take it. Just promise you’ll tell me if I ever do something you don’t like.”

Another pause, and then, very quiet, Peter admits, “I liked all of it. Even the—when you touched my bruises. I liked it.”

Tony smirks into his pillow. “I know,” he says, and then, “Go to sleep. You did good. You deserve to rest, kid.”

“I—I liked it when you called me Peter.”

Tony cracks an eye open again, considering. “Okay. Peter.”

“Goodnight, uh.”

Tony huffs again, and says, “We’re matched, Peter. You can call me Tony.”

“Goodnight, Tony,” Peter says, softly. Tony begins to rub his thumb delicately against Peter’s hand in small, hopefully soothing circles. He means to do it just until the kid falls asleep, but he isn’t sure if he manages because he closes his eyes and within minutes, he’s fallen asleep himself, still holding Peter’s hand.


End file.
